Noir - The Final Act
by purplecleric
Summary: All good things must come to an end... A sequel to Noir. *** Warning - this maybe the darkest yet*** For those who believe in 'happy ever afters', step away now and keep your dreams intact...
1. Light

It was not perfect.

How could it be? Between them, they have nearly a century of experience, have encountered the worst in humanity, have seen the worst in themselves. But they have survived, found strength and hope and love...found each other.

She snuggles back against his comfortable bulk, his leg coming up to rest on hers, his hand on her stomach pulling her closer still. Her fingers stroke the thin lines on his thigh; the once angry wounds now pale slashes of silver.

Silver scars.

She had some too; their jagged tracks marching across her belly. Hers were proud emblems of the depth of her compassion, her gift of life. His were a source of shame; the battle scars of a secret war that he had waged alone. She could only touch them at times like these, when awake he would steer her hand away. She had told him of her fears that dreadful night; how, even now, her heart still skipped a beat when he lay that way, the thought that she may have lost this, lost him, too painful to consider. But his past was closed to her; he had pulled her into his arms, held her tight, silent in his reassurance.

Her fingers caress smooth skin, surprisingly sparse with hair, considering the abundant thick curls on his head, the ever present stubble. She explores the fine ridges of the scars, trying to read their history, divine their mystery, as if they were Braille. But they are as silent as him on the subject.

She is glad she has stayed tonight. They hadn't moved in together; both of them too used to living alone, both of them needing time apart, the intensity of their feelings sometimes overwhelming. But today was the anniversary of his mother's death and he'd been unusually open. He had spoken of his adoration, his frustration, his hatred and his guilt, had spoken at length and with passion, had looked at her as he shared his feelings. There had been no fidgeting and fumbling for words, no head turned away, no eyes cast downward. She had listened and marvelled at how far he had come; heart swelling with yet more love, if that was even possible. And it had been her turn to hug him fiercely, her turn to be speechless.

His words had dried up, and he had reverted to his preferred way to express his feelings – physically. And in this, he was truly eloquent. Whether it was a gentle touch on her arm accompanied by a raised eyebrow to check if she was OK, or the rapture in his eyes as he moved within her, moved her; he made his feelings known.

She squirms a little, pressing her thighs together as she recalls their earlier love-making, feels him twitch and stir in response.

The sex was another way he had changed; in the early days, he had been frantic, desperate with need, as if seeking every opportunity to claim her, make her his. And when he realised she was not leaving, he became anxious to please, to use his nimble fingers, deft tongue and consummate skill to take her higher, farther than ever before. But she had not been a mere recipient of his knowledge; she had been a teacher, too. She had taught him that orgasm was not the only demonstration of love; that a tender kiss, an gentle caress, a playful pinch were equally valid and he had mastered this new language of love as quickly and adroitly as he learned other tongues. She had taught him the pleasure in receiving as well as giving, and together they had learned about each other; each moment now a shared experience, a shared expression of love.

Business as usual; sex and silence. But somehow, through this deep underlying connection, it now worked.

She realises that during her musings her hand had now strayed to that tender spot at the back of his knee, the one guaranteed to get a reaction. And sure enough, she can feel him swelling, hardening, his hand moving from her stomach to cup her breast, his breath hot on her neck as he buries his face in her hair.

No, it was not perfect. But it was very good, indeed.

The rich aroma of fresh coffee jolts him out of his morning stupor and he realises he has been staring, blank eyed, at the machine, lost deep in thought. Realises, too, that his feet are cold from standing barefoot on the linoleum, a minor discomfort considering the rest of him feels so warm. But this warmth is not from the ambient temperature, it comes from deep within him; it is affection, and fondness, and care. It is the warmth of love.

He feels his lips move and knows that they have shaped themselves into that little smile that she always says makes her think of margaritas. The reference is lost on him, one of a thousand mysteries she presents, but he knows it gives her pleasure and that is enough. His smile broadens to a grin; he had never thought that he would be content to exchange an unanswered question for a _feeling._

He had never thought he would be able to talk so frankly about his mother, either. Especially not all the emotions she evoked in him. Especially not as she was so intrinsically bound to his dark past, to... He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, the memories safely walled away again. This is what he has been using his sessions with Gyson for; separating out his sordid, shameful secrets, locking them tightly away while learning to speak openly about other aspects of his past.

So far he had been successful; Gyson was still ignorant of this part of his life. Alex knew a little, had witnessed some of it and he knew she wanted to know more. She was curious about his scars; her stretch marks symbolised life for her but he knew his scars represented nothing but death. He knew there should be honesty between them, but he also knew there could be too much. She is going to have to accept unanswered questions, just like him; will have to embrace his feelings and their future, instead.

He takes his coffee and walks through to the living room, having to move the cushion and the folded throw before he can sit in his favourite chair. Her additions to his home a minor irritation, compared to the major upheaval that living together could mean. He had gotten used to the way he liked things, just as she had. He felt clumsy and giant sized in her home, she said his felt sterile; hence the concessions of throws on his couch, and a bigger bed at her place.

The door opens and he is still shocked by the sight of her, comfortable in his living room, wearing nothing but one of his old T shirts and panties. Maybe not even panties... He feels the surge of desire, although his body has not yet recovered from their pre- dawn love-making to turn thoughts into action. Instead he raises his mug in a silent offering and she shakes her head, equally silent in reply. He watches her settle on the couch, adjusting the cushion for comfort. He likes the way she does not have the need to fill every moment with noise. In these times they are free from the distraction of words, misunderstandings, hidden meanings, subtle subtext.

A quiet communion.

The sun breaks through the clouds, sending a shaft of light through the window, transforming her hair into a blazing halo. The symbolism is not lost on him. She is, indeed, the light in his life.


	2. Dark

There are no more flowers.

The beautiful blooms have been a frequent expression of his emotions, another language of love. She was learning to interpret the subtle meanings in petals and perfume, had the translations bookmarked on her browser so she would not misunderstand.

Their heady scent was now absent, had been gradually replaced by more disturbing messages; the stench of cigarette smoke following him around like a dark cloud, his stubble thickening to a full beard. They are awful reminders of times past and she knows something is very wrong. She broaches the subject with him; her gentle probings met with deflection. Unsatisfied, she is more direct and he withdraws. Fear now replacing worry, she tackles him head on and for the first time, he turns his rage on her; his vicious, spiteful attack making her think of a wounded animal, trapped, lashing out at its would- be saviour.

Later there is contrition, a measure of comfort but no explanation. Later still, she tries to use her body where her words had failed, hoping the tenderness of her touch could reach him. But he is in no mood for gentleness; he is rough, demanding, he takes but does not give. There is no joy in their union, just his relentless pounding, his desperate need that, for once, she cannot seem to fulfil. She looks into his cold, flat eyes, the disturbing deja vu of that first time, and she lets out a small sob at the memory. Excitement flares in his chestnut eyes, the distinctive groan of his release slips from his lips and in that moment her fear turns to dread.

The walls are not strong enough.

The bodies do not stay buried, breaking through the cracks. Filling his nights with tortured visions as they relentlessly march through his mind; their fingers pointing in accusation, trailing a hoard of the bereaved, the grieving in their wake. He is glad of the nights spent alone, nights he doesn't have to feign sleep, nights he doesn't have to protect her from the knowledge of his nightmares.

But the day times are not much better. Each time he looks at a corpse, interviews a grief- stricken witness, the guilt cramps in his belly. The word "victim" feels like ashes on his tongue, purged only by the acrid smoke from a cigarette. The pressure is building, the urge to blurt out the truth gets stronger each time the knife of guilt twists in his gut.

There is another pressure. The Cold Case squad has new software, a programme designed to pick up similarities in massive amounts of variables. He is slowly becoming caught in the web as they join the dots of his victims, trapped by patterns he was unaware he was making, just like Wally Stevens. He cancels his appointments with Gyson, wary that her persistent probing may inadvertantly trigger the internal time bomb that is beginning to tick away. He is fearful that it has already been detonated, the explosion building inside of him. He begins to look at his razor with longing.

And Alex. Oh, Alex!

The reason he keeps silent, does not turn himself in. Self preservation no longer a driving instinct but to see the love die in her eyes... He has been many things in his life; a student, a soldier, a cop, a killer, a lover but he now recognises something new – the coward. He is selfish, greedy for this precious gift of love, something he has fought so hard for, has endured so much to gain and now cannot let it go.

He knows he is neglecting her as he becomes more caught up in the internal struggle to contain the conflicting emotions, knows she is worried about him. He tries to divert her attention, but forgets that she knows his ways, knows him. Forgets, too, her persistence in matters close to her heart. Trapped, cornered, caught between internal and external pressures, he turns on her.

And in that instant, there is the reawakening of what he fears most.

The beast uncoils, savouring the hurt in her eyes, and for one terrible, wonderful moment, he welcomes its return.

No, no, no! That is not who he is anymore. He clings with desperation to the war torn remnants of the good man, and tries to make his peace with her, with himself. Buried deep inside her, the beast consumes his love, howls out for more. Her love is not enough; it_, he_, needs pain, needs humiliation, needs destruction, needs violence, needs death, needs... Her quiet sob is enough to trigger his climax, to break the spell.

He flees.

He sits in his darkened living room; a stark silhouette against the moonlit window. He is utterly still, coldly calculating, considering his options. He is thinking of surrender.

He could surrender to the need, don his camouflage once again, stalk the streets at night. But Alex... she was too close, was in danger. He didn't think he could take her life, but he could hurt her, had already hurt her and it could get so much worse. There were the last dying gasps of the good man calling forth the memories of her compassion, her love, all that she had inspired in him, all that she had given him... no, this was not the way forward.

He could surrender to the authorities but his confession would remove the need for a trial, deny the families their day in court. He could be sloppy, or plant evidence. Lead the detectives to his door. To what end? Death at the hands of another inmate, at the hands of the executioner? And there's Alex...the cowardly, fearful remains of the good man still cherishing the light in her eyes.

Why not cut to the chase, eliminate all the middlemen, the palaver?

He had judged himself, knew he was guilty, needed no jury of his peers to validate that decision. As for the executioner...

He would surrender... to the aching void at the very heart of him, its emptiness he had once thought vanquished. He would surrender to oblivion; it's soft seductive melody singing words of blessed release, of freedom, of peace, just as he had whispered once in the ears of his prey.

There was just one more life to take.

But not here, where she would be the one to find him; the ghost of the good man speaking out in the final defense of his love. Not silently, the ghost pleads, she will need more...

So be it. Carefully, he makes his preparations, removes the letter and the gun from his safe. His mind filled with visions of her, his heart mourning the future that could never be, he takes his Mustang for one last sweet ride.

Flowers!

Her heart leaps in anticipation as she accepts the box from the delivery man. Her heart sinks with despair as she opens the lid. She doesn't need an interpreter, the message is clear. Her breath comes hard and fast as panic swells, as the room spins, as darkness engulfs her.

The card lies nestled in the petals of the black roses; his final message, as yet, unread:

"_You will hear of bodies and blood, the terrible things I have done._

_Will feel anger and betrayal, thoughts of me you will shun._

_Of your heart, your compassion, I ask one thing only, just one._

_Remember our love; my glorious moment in the sun."_


End file.
